


Eclipse

by Theo_Thaur



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Klaus Hargreeves, Hurt/Comfort, I love them but I gave them too much credit, One Shot, Protective Luther Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Soft Luther Hargreeves, honestly I didn't write these two as shitty ENOUGH, which reminds me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27851694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theo_Thaur/pseuds/Theo_Thaur
Summary: 2011, the Umbrella Academy. Luther goes where his father tells him, and Klaus tries his hardest not to work regardless of where he scores a place to sleep. Not-so-routinely, Klaus visits Luther, and neither of their lives feel quite so empty. Just briefly, they each forget their obligations to lifestyles so opposing.
Relationships: Klaus Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Eclipse

**Author's Note:**

> Contains potentially triggering topics: explicit mentions of drug use/substance abuse/overdose, discussion of death, homelessness, body dysmorphia (BDD) and image issues, neglect/elements of past abuse.

Based off of [this](https://thesevenumbrellas.tumblr.com/post/634152334393475072/im-digging-some-luther-and-klaus-content-have-any) headcanon list, fic written with the author's permission --credit to [thesevenumbrellas](https://thesevenumbrellas.tumblr.com) on tumblr!

The company they shared was a much-needed source of consistency over the past year, for both of them. Luther did what he could to measure his days, stacking tasks and challenges in his weekly plans to see how much he could handle before his body gave out. He was much the same way with weightlifting. He didn't really know why he bothered, other than he couldn't not try. Reginald gave him missions and when Luther requested it, yet more weights were brought into his training room, but Reginald watched so little of it. When Luther had been a kid, the weights were noted on a clipboard, missions watched from safety with a pair of binoculars. Evidently those days were gone.

Klaus liked the idea of unplanned days more than he'd liked the reality, he did what he could to bring himself the _opposite_ of Luther's scheduled living (which had never seemed like much of a 'life' to Klaus). Existence was a clever little bitch though, as he'd decided on his own and as Ben would sometimes complain. The days were the same no matter how far he ran. The drugs shifted, the skin he roamed and raked fingers against was an ever shifting canvas, but the mornings were the same, withdrawal was the same. The shockwaves of club music coursing against cheap tile were indistinct, the writhing of people drugged out of their minds was the same every place, though it was always reassuringly _human_ to bump shoulders in the thick of a crowd. Where it mattered, the streets were the same too --lying down on cracked concrete, the night's shadows shadows like a transparent blanket. The bypassers, those were practically indistinct, punctuated by a few royal assholes.

Truth was, they hadn't been very close as kids. They lived in different spheres, it was only the conditions of a shared house that even provided the illusion of same-ness. Luther had at times condemned Klaus' approach towards missions and lessons and life alike. Sometimes he'd ratted Klaus out. Klaus had never been afraid of telling Luther to knock it off, saying that Reginald wouldn't like him no matter how much he sold out. But mostly, they'd existed in a detached peace. Stalemate. There'd been less of Klaus by the time of Five's disappearance, he smoked too much weed to bad-mouth Luther with Diego at his side.

When Klaus had left, he'd thought it would be forever, he thought he'd never stay in the city, never pass by those umbrella-marked windows. He made his way back to the city anyways, having meandered around aimlessly. By twenty-five, easily, he'd developed a great friendship with the first responders, and the dealers. Mainly, he stayed here for the dealers. Klaus decided, somewhat seriously, that they were what made the city feel like home.

And mostly, Luther stayed for his father, getting missions done, getting, well, more missions done. When Klaus had left, Luther had tried to tell himself, _'good riddance, one less piece of dead weight.'_

But then the dead weight had started turning up again. They'd first met by accident, each barely nineteen but worlds apart. Luther was on the scene, a burning house. He'd stumbled through the flames until his eyes watered from the smoke, skin singed, but more like a plank of wood than a sizzling piece of meat. His body had not yet been touched by DNA that wasn't his own, and anyways, he'd hardly helped a little girl out of the flames before real firefighters came and told him to step away. Luther had watched the flames that had licked the building, licked his skin, got hosed off unceremoniously. Klaus had appeared by his side, lighting a cigarette, which made Luther cringe for more reasons than one.

_"You look scared. Saw a ghost?"_ Klaus had laughed to himself, pushing unruly bangs away from his face which had gone stringy with sweat and grease. _"Oh relax. I didn't do it."_ And then he'd walked away. Just like that. Luther had thought about it for weeks after it had happened. 

Then Klaus had shown up a few months later. He'd looked reluctant, but only at the first visit. After that he shed any embarrassment, any indicator of awareness that sneaking back into his childhood home was an odd practice. It'd happened for about four years, on and off. Especially off. 

It was a quiet night. Luther sat near the radiator, journalling under moonlight. He liked giving himself time to document each day, some days more than others. When he felt bold, he included poetry, or photographs, or excerpts from news articles. None of it was exactly pretty, there was a distinctive change in the large gap of time before and after 'the accident.' His handwriting was more crude than it had once been. He did his best and assured himself it wasn't about how it looked, but what he said. Someday all of the words might be important, but it was a little self-indulgent anyways. Luther heard footsteps draw closer, his door creaked open. He frowned, realizing he'd smudged the graphite from his journal at some point. Luther tried to rub the graphite from his hand, "hey Klaus," he greeted, distracted.

"I'll be damned, Luth. How'd you know it was me?" The door creaked shut behind Klaus' back. 

"Oh, that's easy," he said, giving up and closing the journal. "You walk up those stairs like you did when we were teens. Like you're running, like you're hiding. You walk on the sides as a habit of avoiding squeaky wood even though the staircase is stone. You never forgot how to sneak in late at night." Luther paused, struggling for words, "but, then, once you get to the landing that all goes away, you stumble across the wooden floors and make yourself at home. ...Plus, uh, you're the only one that… visits," he finished, looking a little more sheepish, the poetic impulse leaving him. Klaus stared at him for a very, very long time, before nodding even though he hadn't expected Luther of all people to be so perceptive. It was a little creepy.

"I guess next time I'll throw rocks at your window or use the fire escape to spice it up," Klaus suggested, moving across the room, sitting down criss-cross next to Luther.

"Huh? You already did… a few times, last time this September. I think."

"Wow…" Klaus said, looking surprised, a little awestruck. "...You _really_ need to get a life!" He laughed, leaning forward to clap Luther on the back, and causing Luther to crinkle his nose at the skunky smell on the collar of Klaus' coat.

"You're one to talk…" Luther replied, defensive. Klaus' hands inched towards Luther's notebook, but Luther swiped it away from those curious hands. Standing, he put it down atop the tall stack of finished journals, the first one he'd started keeping at sixteen. "You're really hard to find, Klaus," he said, looking down at Klaus who was entertaining himself by picking at the rug.

Klaus looked up at Luther. "Well, dad _did_ always tell us we were special, I guess." He snorted.

"That's not what I meant," Luther replied, blunt.

"Ugh. Then tell me what you meant! And stop making that face," he groaned. "It's like you're trying to read a sign that's reeeeaaaally far away."

Luther didn't say anything, at first because he had no clue how to react to that comment, but secondly because he was trying to figure out how to explain himself. "...It's a big city and I'm either in the academy or doing missions, most of the time. I have trouble making sure you're still _alive_ ," his eyebrows raised slightly at the end of the sentence as he placed more emphasis on it. Klaus was nonplussed, leaning back by bracing his palms out behind himself, against the floor. Luther waited for some kind of an answer. When deciding he wouldn't get one, because Klaus didn't care, he added a bit awkwardly, "Haven't you thought about settling down a little? Being an adult?" A funny thing happened then. Klaus' eyes dipped to the floor, he brought his arms back to his sides, swallowing. The moment passed about as quickly as it came.

"Funny coming from you, Luth… you're still here," was the reply, but it wasn't too defensive, more teasing than anything else, with a quiet hint of resignation. Maybe if it hadn't been _Luther_ , who, despite everything else, seemed to actually care in his own fucked up little way. Maybe Klaus would've stood behind the choices he'd made for himself, a patchwork of decisions filled with as many holes --lapses in memory-- as there were stitches. It was his _lifestyle_ , his attestment that what he'd decided at seventeen was true, that anywhere was better than the academy. But Klaus was tired, so tired. Luther was quiet, neither of them had much more to say for a few minutes. He moved towards the window, looking out at the gray skies as if the smog of the city didn't keep him from seeing stars. Luther feigned diligence, if not very well, because there was nothing to be diligent _about_. The only real threat was self-imposed, the worry of being too honest. It was a fear he'd created for himself. A leader that was too transparent, he'd decided a long time ago, was no longer a leader. People didn't respect caring openness, they respected someone that looked and sounded like they knew what they were doing.

"The world needs me," Luther asserted finally, turning to Klaus and pointing out the window to emphasize his point. A condition of their childhood teachings had been that even if they were not doing anything of importance, they should always look important. Cameras respected that best, the allure of pride. He held his shoulders back, the cool moonlight splashing across the harsh shadows of his face, which was at odds with the pale amber of his room lights. Klaus appeared to reject everything about that, his form languid, basking only in the pale yellow lamplight. Somewhere between sickly and ethereal, where skin dipped and was hollow, it was replaced with pools of shadow. He looked up at Luther.

"I know it does. I know." Klaus smiled. It was a sad look. He didn't really think there was anything he could've done to make Luther feel otherwise, but he didn't try to. Luther was the only one of them left inside the bricks, he was probably warm most nights, too. Klaus didn't think it was very right to tell Luther to leave for a life he might not want, for a life Klaus wasn't entirely convinced he wanted _at all_. Klaus didn't want responsibilities, he was fine admitting that, but Luther didn't seem to want much of the real world and Klaus didn't think Luther was ready to say so. "Any longer like this and you'll _really_ start to sound like Diego, plus you know I didn't come here for chit-chat," Klaus stood suddenly, cracking his knuckles. Luther let go of the curtain, stepping away from the window as his features slackened into surprise, and then, indignation. 

"I sound like Diego?" he asked.

Klaus shrugged. "Feed me," he answered, since the conversation Luther wanted to have was much longer than his patience. He walked towards the door, slowly, but Luther followed up behind Klaus quickly, putting his hand on his shoulder. 

"I'll get it," he said, and Klaus smiled, but kept himself facing the door. That exchange was pretty usual. Klaus had made himself food before but Luther had always been nervous Reginald, Pogo, or Grace would discover them. He always walked towards the door knowing Luther would stop him and offer to do it himself. Klaus stepped away, and Luther left the room, door clicking shut quietly behind himself. Klaus usually took this as his chance to look at Luther's things, tracing his hand over shelves and model airplanes. The first few times he'd been alone in Luther's room, he'd rummaged through the drawers. Klaus had never brought himself to actually stealing from Luther, though his fingertips had graced --and even held, briefly-- nice cufflinks, an interesting little compass, modest little things like that Luther had been gifted for good deeds or bought himself. Klaus did instead what he'd gotten half-way accustomed to; when he was in the mood and could focus he'd leaf through Luther's journals. He skimmed over it, mostly, until something would inevitably catch his eye. When Ben was around he usually told Klaus not to look, since it was a violation of privacy, but that night Klaus couldn't see Ben. Even when he could, Ben usually ended up looking over Klaus' shoulder after a minute or two of protesting. It was self-centered, but not in a sense of Klaus being a gossip (though that was also true, he didn't think Luther had juicy tidbits to start with). He looked through the journals more because he wanted to be sure Luther was doing alright on his own, that Reginald wasn't being too much of an asshole. Klaus read it to alleviate some of his guilt for leaving _any_ family member behind with Reginald. That still didn't make it right, but Klaus had never argued it did. 

He set the journal down eventually, moving away from the stack when he heard heavy footsteps coming towards the door. Two could play at that game. Luther had learned it through years of putting conscious effort into being a good leader and a perceptive watcher, Klaus had learned it as a teenager within a few days of being a stoner and wanting to know when to put his blunt out and leave the closet before Pogo came in. Luther carried a tray in his hands, and set it down on a stout little coffee table, like always. It was usually pretty okay stuff, Luther spent long enough in the kitchen that Klaus had enough time to comb decently well through the journals. Klaus had never noticed, but Luther had shaved down precious minutes by trying to make sure he knew a few different recipes depending on what was stocked in the pantry and fridge, and by learning the layout of the kitchen so he could even move around in the dark. They sat down in front of the coffee table, the tray filled with two cups of tea, a bowl of soup, some slices of cheese, and bread. Luther took his cup, sipping from it, but left the rest to Klaus. Klaus never felt any desire to tease Luther about the contents of his journal. It was something Luther treasured, something he probably wanted to keep to himself. If he spilt the beans for a joke that risked him getting kicked out with no more food. Klaus sort of liked the poetry, although that wasn't what he went out of his way to look for. Sometimes on cold nights he tried really hard to remember those poems exactly as Luther had written them. He usually couldn't. That usually made him angry.

"Mm yes, sehr gut," Klaus complimented, in a stiff, prim and proper accent somewhere between an approximate English accent and a German one. He took the other mug for himself, pinky raised, and reached his arm over the table to clink it with Luther's. Luther immediately looked relieved thanks to Klaus' speaking up and deciding the food was alright. There were plenty of fancy teacups and other fine china in the house, but Luther always brought up whatever stuffy tea Reginald kept stocked in mugs, letting the string of the teabag dangle off the side of the cup despite their having an ornate tea kettle. Klaus had never fully figured out why Luther did this. He guessed it was just because Luther didn't really have a sense about those kinds of things, but a gnawing part of him wondered if it was because after all that time, Luther was still worried about mitts touching daddy's nice plates. Unfortunately, Klaus' hands shook too much holding the mug with one hand, so the mug was warm against his palms when he raised it to his lips to drink. The steam curled against his cheeks as he blew at it, Klaus didn't mind much. As he spooned up soup, Luther cleared his throat a little, bringing himself into another ritual of theirs.

"Well… Vanya recently returned back to the city after touring with her orchestra," Luther started, looking across the table. Klaus nodded. It went without saying what Luther was doing, he was catching Klaus up on everything that had happened since Klaus' last visit, and sure enough, whenever Klaus came back again Luther would do the same. Luther liked having a reason to tell, a reason it could matter outside of him watching, learning, remembering these things for himself and only himself. He liked feeling as if he was helping in some way. "Allison had a small acting cameo…"

"Was it on a television series, or in a movie?" Klaus asked.

"Television," Luther answered quickly. Klaus grinned wryly.

"She can do better than that," he boasted. Luther smiled broadly, it reached his eyes.

"Yes, yes she can," he agreed. The look faded after a moment. "There's talk she's gotten a boyfriend…" Klaus didn't say anything that time. Frowning, he kept to his soup. He would've made a jab but he cared too much about not being thrown out. In Klaus' opinion Luther had enough baggage without _that_ situation, and Klaus had heard enough and then some in those journal entries. Luther eventually distracted himself enough to keep going. "Diego has a fight coming up. Other than that, I couldn't find anything else," his voice was more serious, there wasn't as much warmth in it, but then again Luther was talking about Diego so that didn't mean as much. But just like he did with everyone else, Luther was keeping tabs on Diego. That did count for something. Klaus didn't listen to humor Luther, although he would've since Luther was feeding him. He did genuinely care about what everyone else was doing, he liked to think that everyone else was doing alright. It was comforting for Klaus to believe they were all out living their lives, that not all of them were dead-end addicts living like he was. 

"You know," Luther raised his cup to his lips, taking a sip before his eyes widened, too-hot tea hitting his tongue. Luther slammed the hot mug back down on the tray, the liquid sloshing over the side a little. He probably would've shattered some poor unsuspecting teacup at that moment. Luther rocked back, putting a hand over his mouth, looking like he'd eaten something sour. Klaus laughed. Luther looked a little embarrassed, but cracked a smile. It was slight acquiescences like that, that made Klaus feel more comfortable around Luther, like he wasn't being controlled by a man that was called Number One but was basically Reginald Two (a nickname for Luther used between Klaus and Diego to refer to Luther, for a time). But he still knew what was coming, he knew that tone, and once Luther had mostly recovered from the burning of his tongue, he began again and Klaus was taken away from his momentary amusement. "You can always come back to stay at the academy. Full time," Luther tried to search for eye contact with Klaus, but Klaus evaded, tearing off a bite of bread. Luther tried to shoot Klaus a smile, billing it as a genuine offer --because to Luther it was.

"I've heard that a bazillion times," Klaus replied with a sigh, only once he'd swallowed down the food. "You sound like you run a Church. I'm sorry, I won't find God," Klaus set his spoon down, raising his palms up, as if feigning arrest. "Aah! Rather let God find me," he said, giggling. "And with how things are going for me, that seems easier anyways," he added, putting his hands down. "Works better with my busy schedule, 'kay? When God's ready, if that happens, then God can come and get it, but until then I'm going to keep double-fisting eight years expired Orajel in an empty parking lot."

"...Klaus. I'm serious." Luther gave up quickly on forcing a smile, he only looked concerned and disappointed and too much like Reginald for Klaus' taste.

"Yeah and I'm serious too, Mr. Straight Edge," Klaus spat, going back to his soup. Luther raised his eyebrows. Klaus sighed quietly, feeling like his skin was on fire. He didn't want to be put under a microscope. 

"You'd rather be out on the streets than back in the academy? Cold, hungry, on your own?"

"Mm-hmm," Klaus replied flatly, through another sigh. "I've got no problem with the cold. You're the one that got frostbite on the _'_ _Chalet Shoot-out'_ mission," though recalling a childhood memory, there wasn't warmth in his voice. Luther looked much more hurt than he had a reason to, like a kicked puppy, but that was normal in the same sense that it was normal for Klaus to blow off Luther's proposition. Truth was, Luther would _a_ _lways_ tell Klaus that he could --and _should_ \-- stay full-time at the academy, because they'd always be a room for him there. Or, try _six_ rooms. Luther would always want someone to see at breakfast, someone to talk to after uncomfortably dismissing his own mother, who stood watching him eat, because he knew she had work to do and either way had always been self-conscious about portions after the operation. He would always want someone to listen to records with, someone to go with to look for vinyls, someone that could hear a song he'd found and say, _'you're right, that's got Diego written all over it.'_ He wanted that life more than almost anything else.

But Klaus would always say no. Always. The doors of the academy were always open, sure, but only because Reginald never really gave a damn enough to watch them. He would always leave, there was no staying, there was no use trying to be stable and it didn't take retracing his steps to know he couldn't hold a place down. It would cost him nothing to live there, monetarily. But there were too many old ghosts in the academy, Klaus couldn't even manage staying the night in his old bed. He would instead draw up a hundred excuses from thin air, weaving them together like a flower chain if Luther could just ignore how the oldest flowers wilted, how the lies contradicted. He didn't expect Luther to understand what Reginald had meant to him, in some ways Klaus was glad Luther didn't get. Or maybe more accurately Klaus had never _tried_ to put it into words. Well, words just weren't his thing, not _those_ kinds of words. Ben perpetually told him what his past meant and how to let it go, so to Klaus it always just felt more okay to let their childhood not be part of too much debate with Luther.

And yes, Luther would reach out and Klaus would avoid that commitment. In equal measure, Luther was as devoted to Reginald as he'd ever been, and Klaus was as uncomfortable with his father as he'd ever been. Maybe it was Klaus' fault for not trying to help Luther, maybe he was lazy, but he preferred to think he was the good guy for keeping the wool over Luther's eyes. Maybe Luther should've understood it when Ben died, when Allison told him she was leaving for good. Maybe some things you were just supposed to see, and _understand_ , and helping a stuck pig wasn't Klaus' problem. 

It was exactly the kind of contrived bullshit where they were pitted against each other, constantly comparing and trying to detangle a mess _they'd_ never made, just like Reginald always wanted from them as kids. 

"... Okay," Luther said finally. At those moments, Klaus never once believed it was meant to guilt him, but each time, the weight of the disagreement visibly settled on Luther's shoulders. Klaus felt much worse, watching his brother --unbeknownst to Luther that it was obvious-- struggle with the disappointment and confusion, and the incoming new wave of loneliness he would have to face. Klaus just knew he couldn't make it work, he couldn't get attached like that. He wasn't ready, he could clean up enough to see Luther but the guy would probably hate him in the real world, just like when they were teenagers. Besides, Luther probably wouldn't have felt any more at home in the nightclubs and alleys than Klaus felt in the academy. 

"I'll be back," Klaus told him, trying to temper his voice to sound casual and not too soft. Like usual. He rocked slightly, before soothing himself, drinking from the mug just to keep his hands busy. Luther nodded, his eyes had migrated squarely down at the coffee table, and he tried to gather his thoughts, pull himself together. 

"I got you something," he said bluntly, surprising Klaus.

"For moi?" Klaus held a hand to his chest. "You shouldn't have!" Luther smiled a little, and Klaus thought it was perfectly goofy. They both wanted to move on and push off feelings that hurt too much. Carefully, Luther moved away from the small table to stand, rustling through a drawer of his bureau. He thought, wished, to himself that Klaus would've given him proper warning on when he'd appear, but of course Klaus hadn't. Luther had struggled with trying to wrap it up on his own, hands too clumsy and wadding up tape and paper alike in a mess of creases and excess. It didn't help that the family had never been very big on holidays to begin with. He'd stuck a bow on the box and called it good, since it wasn't the type of thing you could have wrapped at a department store. Luther handed it over, Klaus took a break from the soup to inspect it, smiling a little. The curiosity turned to surprise, and then amusement. Klaus laughed, holding it up. "You tried to make Naloxone _pretty_?" he asked. Luther's expression fell.

"It wasn't supposed to be funny," Luther defended. "I thought you'd like the bow, because…" he trailed off, his inability to finish caused mostly by Klaus raising an eyebrow, making him feel nervous and doubting his choices. Klaus eased off, shrugging, laughing, and then plucking the sparkling red bow off of the small box, sticking it to the sleeve of his coat like an odd corsage.

"I like it, then. Neato," Klaus affirmed. Luther blinked, confused, but sitting back down at the table anyways

He peaked over the rim of the raised mug at Klaus. "Do you know how to…?" 

"Sure thing," the other finished. 

"And you'll only," Luther cringed, "...do that _stuff_ around other people, right? Never alone?" Klaus thought that was a little funny, but he bit back a remark. Between Ben, the other spirits, and his lifestyle, he wasn't often alone.

"Uh-huh," he answered lightly, putting the box down, over to his side. Luther nodded, staring over at Klaus. He didn't want to probe that much, he didn't want for Klaus to think he was uncool. But of course he cared, and he _worried_. Just because he saw Klaus in person, that didn't change anything. He went through what-ifs as much as he did with any of the others. Even though he couldn't always be there, he felt a little safer knowing he'd done something to try and help, to be a part of the solution.

"Thanks," Klaus said, suddenly subdued, suddenly looking down at his soup. He held the spoon up near his lips a little longer before taking it. Luther was relieved that Klaus said something, having feared with a churning in his stomach that if he said anything else it'd come off overbearing. "It's what dad wants I'm sure, making sure his kids are still plenty drugged up even after they've left the nest," that soft look had left Klaus' features, he was laughing again, trying to not sound so bitter. "I oughta tell you how to make my special brew, the ' _Hargreeves Head-Scratcher_. _'_ That's the _real_ legacy that the academy should focus on spreading to future generations." 

"The _'Hargreeves Head-scratcher'_?" Luther repeated, confused.

"Yup. Don't criticize my naming strategy, I was like, fifteen," Klaus said. "It starts with a drug cocktail and ends with getting confused about why there's a talking monkey in your room telling you to do your reading assignment." 

"I don't think we should recreate that," Luther replied.

"Nah," Klaus replied, "you're probably right." He wasn't sure he should say it, but it had crossed his mind before, nights like that. "I can tell you still see yourself as Number One." Luther made a face like he'd been accused of something, it was a neutral statement technically but he didn't take it very well.

"Well I _am_ Number One," he responded. "What else?"

"Luth, you're the _only_ one," Klaus answered. It didn't sound haughty, the way he answered. Just honest, just sad, as he looked at the only relic at the academy that still seemed like it still had a soul left.

" _Someone_ has to be here," Luther answered, a brick wall as usual, though the same could be said about Klaus' habits.

"I only mean, it's okay to… be the middle number, sometimes."

"How?" Luther answered, and his voice wasn't as defensive. It moved away from that authoritative, rehearsed tone Klaus had listened to a million times for interviews when they'd been children. Luther stared at him, leaned forward slightly, a shock of desperation in his dead-on blue eyes. Luther, who'd never needed to worry about a place to stay. Luther, who'd never touch a drop of alcohol. Luther, who didn't worry about his next shower or next meal, but who suddenly looked much older than he should've at twenty-five years old. Suddenly Luther was Atlas, who'd lost the war, and as punishment was forced to hold the sky on his shoulders forever. All the sinew in the world couldn't account for the pressure of the celestial. Klaus felt this, in the shadow under Luther's eyes, the way he seemed to fight himself to not break the mug trembling in his hands, the wrinkles of his skin as his eyebrows raised, asking _how?_

But Klaus had never focused too well on the flowery, confusing language of old Greek stories --that'd always belonged to Five, and belonged to Ben. So he didn't know what to say. Luther was a statue for a moment longer, strained in action, before his muscles relaxed. He learned away and put the cup down. "Can't be a 'middle number' if I'm the only one here," Luther muttered. Klaus wasn't sure what he'd meant in the first place with that suggestion.

"...You're more than just what he says," Klaus told Luther. There wasn't any need to distinguish _who_ he was referring to. Klaus said it like he meant it, because he did mean it, and he wanted Luther to listen. He said it because he hadn't had a good answer when Luther had asked him 'how?', he said it because he didn't know what else to do. Luther was quiet, embarrassed for acting out. He didn't want to act like that, Klaus came to him for help and he wanted to be composed so he'd be taken seriously. He wasn't good at allowing himself to ask for help, especially not since he'd started working on --and completing-- missions alone. "At this rate, I think you'll pack your bags and leave the academy the day I go sober," Klaus commented, forcing a laugh. For many reasons, Luther didn't find it funny. "Can you put on some music?" Klaus asked, more quietly. Luther went to his record player wordlessly. It'd broken the tension many times. Usually Klaus liked to let Luther pick. Luther looked through the collection of vinyls, before choosing one. They had their disagreements, but he still cared for Klaus as did he any of the siblings, though each past was in its own respects, checkered to say the least. He'd found a record a couple weeks back and it'd made him think of Klaus. It helped that Luther liked it quite a bit, too. He skipped onto the last song of the track, because he'd thought it was especially interesting. Luther turned to watch Klaus' reaction. Klaus didn't say anything for a moment, before recognition hit him and he smiled.

"You put on stoner music just for me?" Klaus asked, incredulous. Luther was immediately taken back.

" _Stoner_ music? This isn't stoner music!" he responded, a little offended by the idea since he'd come to cherish the album. Klaus' laughter came as an uproar, he was red-faced. It wasn't just the nature of the situation, it was the way Luther was staring at him as Pink Floyd played in the background, as model planes hung suspended from the ceiling. Luther looked equal parts lost and upset by the prospect that the music he liked apparently held that kind of connection. "Klaus, please, it's _just_ \--"

"Take it from your wook brother, alright? This is stoner music," Klaus wiped a tear from out of the corner of his eye, his ribs hurt a little. "It sounds a little different when you're not tripping on acid, though." Luther's face grew less offended and almost saddened by acceptance. 

"I just liked it because it's about space," he said weakly.

"Sh, Luth, we're getting to the good part. Try to enjoy it," Klaus replied, which was exactly what Luther tried to do. He closed his eyes and drank in the rich tones, the cozy familiarity of well-tread ground. Moments like that, he felt like he sort of understood what Vanya had felt when she played her music. It was too little too late and he knew that, to sympathize with her and her isolation inside the academy walls. But at least sometimes music could still play, still be heard and shared. He had a small area of his collection devoted to orchestral music. Anything to fill the quiet, he told himself, but it was more than that. Sometimes he was homesick for a reality that had never really existed. The last note eventually faded, stopping the trance, and suddenly Luther was heavy on his feet again and not as weightless as the song had felt. 

Luther lifted the needle, stopped the spinning, put the record away. He looked over at Klaus as he slid the record back into the sleeve, "you know, I guess I don't really mind th--..." Klaus had put his head against the wall at some point, he was still and didn't say a word. Luther put the record down, heart beating in his chest, and he drew closer to Klaus' hunched figure. He crouched down, Klaus' eyes were shut. Nervous, panicked, Luther brought his hand to the side of Klaus' neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, within a healthy range of beats. Luther sighed with relief, relaxing enough to nearly topple over on his back. Klaus was just sleeping. He stood, watching, but felt a little bad leaving his brother wedged up against the wall, and in front of a table and food no less. It wouldn't do. Luther tried to be as gentle as possible, though manoeuvring Klaus with his legs crossed and under the table wasn't easy. Klaus' knees thudded against the bottom of the coffee table a few times, jittering everything atop it, but eventually Luther had the man in his arms. He put Klaus down on his bed, figuring it was safer to have him there, where Luther could keep an eye out, rather than in Klaus' own childhood bedroom. Luther pulled the covers up over Klaus and made sure he had a pillow, stepping away only when he was satisfied with his work.

Klaus hadn't been asleep the whole time, not by a long shot. He'd drifted off briefly but woke the moment Luther had tried to ease his back down against his forearm. He didn't need much comfort to sleep, but he woke more easily than his time in the academy. He'd never slept over in the academy before, but Luther's efforts, the way he'd whispered 'darn it!' to himself as he tried to pick Klaus up, it was sort of endearing and Klaus would've felt bad for telling the poor guy he was wide awake not more than a minute in. The blankets were warm as Luther tucked him in, it was an experience Klaus hadn't had for years, not since Grace had tried to console him after particularly harsh nightmares. Klaus did like being cared for. He supposed Luther knew that by then, regardless of how he acted about it, how indifferent he was about services like food and a bed regardless of how much those things meant. It was more than just the things themselves though. When it came down to it, he was confident enough in his ability to flirt or con his way into money and a place to stay. If it had only been about that, Klaus wouldn't have gone back to the academy, not when seeing it made him feel so incredibly unsafe.

He came back for Luther. He came back because Luther gave something he didn't know how to find. He came back because Luther cared about him, _consistently_ , and without any sort of sexual component attached to it. It was grounding in ways he couldn't explain to just have _value_ , as a person, to know there was always someone there for him who, unlike Ben, let him in not expecting much, and out of no physical obligation. 

Sort of a sad bargain, and a really low standard. Klaus knew that. But it was no time to get philosophical, he was drifting into sleep at the academy for the first time in years. Be it the comfort of someone gentle watching over him, or the exhaustion of his body combined with a soft bed, but Klaus was _letting_ himself sleep and hoping for the best.

Luther didn't want to play any more records because he was scared they might wake Klaus up. So instead he picked up his unfinished journal from the tall stack, and sat back down by the radiator.

It wasn't like Luther gained nothing from their unspoken arrangement, it wasn't just some saintly, charitable act. He felt better reconnecting with a member of his family, a piece of his old life when both of them had lost too much family already. It was deeper than that though, deeper than Klaus even being company that laughed and smiled and distracted him from being mostly alone and at war with evils. There was his role as Number One to fulfil, and there was even his role as a brother to fulfil --the two difficult but telling when it came to making distinctions. Luther felt validated by someone _choosing_ to see him, rather than someone he had to insert himself into a life and work schedule to see. He felt more like himself because he didn't walk on eggshells with Klaus, they could disagree and he could say he disagreed, and things would always patch themselves up. He didn't jump through hoops to see Klaus, he didn't have to _always_ be the one starting conversations and didn't have to try to be someone that didn't come naturally. Those were low standards, probably, but that was alright because it was enough.

Luther decided he felt like writing something, though he wasn't sure what. He looked up at the bed Klaus slept in, thinking, before settling on trying his hand at a poem. Maybe he'd write something and see what Klaus thought of it in the morning.


End file.
